‘A priest in the making among us!’ Hlynur went on.
Ari Thór forced himself to smile, although he was far from amused.
‘Are you going to solve the cases we mortals can’t handle?’ Hlynur asked. ‘With a little help from upstairs?’
He and Tómas laughed.
‘The Reverend Ari,’ Hlynur said. ‘The Reverend Ari Thór solves the mystery!’
After that the most unlikely people took to calling him “the priest” or “the Reverend Ari Thór”. He played along with it, even though he had never liked nicknames, least of all a nickname created on the basis of studies that he had started only half-heartedly, and then given up.
That first day at work he had tried to call Kristín, but she hadn’t answered. He sent her an email describing the trip to the north, providing details about Tómas and the house. He left out anything about how he felt; he didn’t mention that this isolated place had greeted him with gloom and darkness, that he was still unhappy with her reaction to his getting a job there, or his disappointment that she hadn’t seen fit to take some time off to go with him – or at least spend a weekend together there. Maybe she didn’t want to make things too easy for him? Or maybe she was hoping he’d be back in Reykjavík in a few weeks, having given up on the snow and isolation of the north.
Ari Thór had read her reply the following day. She wrote about work and her studies, mentioning as well that her father had lost his job at the bank where he had been for years, one among many who had been let go. He knew that she would be feeling distraught over this, and that her mother worked at an architect’s practice where the financial crash would doubtless also make itself felt soon enough. Kristín didn’t seem inclined to discuss anything in detail. It was a short message, lacking in any kind of emotion. As was his to her.
The next day he was able to reach her on the phone. He was just home from a long shift and not as ready as he would have liked to discuss what was troubling him. They talked for while about superficial things, but nothing in any real depth. Kristín had always been calm and quiet, and was rarely inclined to let minor, everyday things upset her. So he wasn’t able to decide if he was the only one unwilling to delve into things that affected them both.
As the weeks went on, they talked every day, but Ari Thór still avoided bringing up his disappointment that she wasn’t supportive enough of his new job, and Kristín seemed to avoid the subject as well, probably still annoyed that he had left Reykjavík. Still, it didn’t seem fair, he thought. She had her parents and her friends in Reykjavík. He was all alone in a new place and would certainly have appreciated some reassurance. But instead of tackling these issues, they kept their conversations short – friendly but trivial.
But now he needed to call her. It was already mid-December, he had been in Siglufjördur for over a month, and Christmas was approaching. He was going to have to let her know about Tómas’s decision to assign him shifts over the holiday period, and it wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to. Tómas had actually phrased it as a request, but, realistically, Ari Thór couldn’t say no: he was in no position to refuse and he wanted to prove himself.
He started the day with cereal, ice-cold milk and yesterday’s newspaper. He had started to get used to seeing the papers late, as the morning editions didn’t reach this far-flung fjord until at least midday. Not that it mattered. The rhythm of life was different here, time passed more slowly and there was less bustling hurry than in the city. The papers would be here when they were here.
He called Kristín and had to wait a moment before she answered.
‘Hi, I’m at work, couldn’t get to the phone right away. How are things?’
‘Not bad,’ he said and hesitated as he stared out of the kitchen window. There was a thick layer of snow over the town. This was no place for cars other than heavy 4×4s. What you needed here was a good pair of boots, or skis. ‘Any snow where you are? It’s coming down non-stop up here.’
‘No, none at all here. Just cold and there’s no wind, but it’s icy underfoot. It looks like it’ll be a snow-free Christmas in Reykjavík. You’ll miss out on all that Christmas snow up north.’
Ari Thór was silent for a moment as he carefully thought about the words he was going to use.
Kristín continued, ‘I’ve spoken to Mum and Dad and we’ll have Christmas dinner with them like last year, so we can get away with not buying a Christmas tree, unless you feel like having one at home …’
‘Listen… There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Tómas had a word with me yesterday, and I have to work a few shifts over Christmas…’
There was a silence.
‘A few?’ Her voice was sharp. ‘Just what does that mean?’
‘Well. Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and a couple more days before New Year.’
The continued silence became deafening.
‘So when are you coming south?’
‘It’s probably best if I come at the beginning of January when I can get a week off.’
‘Next year? You’re joking? You’re not coming for Christmas?’ Her tone was icy, but Kristín didn’t raise her voice. ‘We decided we were going to discuss everything at Christmas, sort out plans for next year. So I’m not going to see you until January? Or maybe even February?’
‘I’ll try and come in January. I’m the new man here so it’s not as if I can throw my weight about. I ought to be thankful that I’ve at least got a real career opportunity here.’ He was slightly annoyed, but tried to hide it, not wishing to add to the tension.
‘Opportunity? You need to take the blinkers off, Ari Thór … Is this an opportunity to … to build a relationship, or start a family? There are five hundred kilometres between us. Five hundred, Ari Thór.’
Roughly four hundred, not five hundred, he silently told himself, realising that this wasn’t the time to correct her.
‘I can’t do anything about it. The others have both been here longer than I have and they both have families…’ he said, regretting the words the moment he had said them.
‘So what? Don’t you have a family in Reykjavík? What about me? And what about my parents?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
Silence again.
‘I have to go.’ Her voice was lower, with a hint of a sob in it. ‘I have to go. I’m being paged. We’ll talk later.’
9
She had no idea what his intentions were.
A terrible foreboding overtook her, thoughts that she dared not think through to their conclusion. Was this a straightforward burglary, or something far worse?
The idea of ignoring his warning and just screaming, screaming with every ounce of energy in her flashed through her mind, but there were few people about to hear her and there were big gardens separating the houses.
She was a prisoner of her own prosperity, here in this spacious detached house in a quiet neighbourhood, where people paid to cut themselves off from the world’s problems.
He was silent, looking around. She didn’t dare speak, and hardly dared look at him. He looked over the living room, saying nothing, and the silence weighed heavily; the silence and the uncertainty.
What the hell; why couldn’t he speak? Anything so that she didn’t have to lie still among her thoughts.
Her mind turned to her two children, who had long since flown the nest, both with families of their own. They weren’t likely to be appear just when she needed them, rarely visiting their parents other than in the holidays or at Christmas.
No, she was alone with this unknown man.
He stood still and seemed to be reckoning the size of the living room. It was a wonderful room, as beautifully put together as anything in a property magazine, with two watercolours on the walls, both country landscapes, as well as the stylish coffee table and the newish sofa, the old wooden bureau inherited from her husband’s family and, finally, the armchair, a ridiculously expensive designer p
iece in leather, to which she was deeply attached. She took a shocked breath as he dropped into the chair, stroking the armrest with the point of his knife, and looked over at her. He said something, one word in a hoarse voice, almost a whisper, as if he didn’t want his voice to identify him later. That was promising, as was the fact that he had decided to cover his face. Maybe he was going to let her live.
She struggled to hear what he said.
‘Sorry?’ she almost whispered, terrified.
‘I said, where’s the jewellery?’
Just some bloody thief, she decided, with relief.
She stood up, but felt faint, trying to maintain her balance as she pointed along the corridor to the stairs. Some of her jewellery was in the bedroom upstairs, although her husband had put the most expensive pieces away in a safe in the little study downstairs, along with documents and other valuables. She took a slight comfort in the fact that she didn’t know the combination needed to open it.
He was holding the knife almost carelessly, but still as if he knew just how to use it; as if this wasn’t the first time he had used it. She made her way up the stairs with him following behind her. She quickly showed him the jewellery in the bedroom, carelessly deciding that there was no point in dragging this out, hoping that he would take what he’d come for, and then leave her alive.
He tipped the contents of the jewellery box on the bed and went through it, rifling through her memories: her engagement ring, birthday presents, wedding gifts. She thought of her husband; what if this man didn’t let her go? What if…?
She thought of the future, the golden years they had planned to spend travelling and exploring the rest of the world.
Was this bastard of a criminal going to take all that away?
10
SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SUNDAY, 14TH DECEMBER 2008
Two whole years. It was hard to believe. As if it had been only yesterday, Ari Thór remembered going downtown to buy Kristín a Christmas present for the first time. These memories skittered into his mind as he stood by Ugla’s house, the church bells resounding along the fjord. The bells echoed through the town, making it difficult to tell from which direction the sound came. Ari Thór instinctively turned to face the mountains; the ringing seemed to tumble down from the hills rather than from the church. He had a sudden vision, not of mountains, but of a tranquil evening by the lake in Reykjavík, just two years ago.
With the end-of-term exams approaching, he had given up on the theology textbooks for the evening and left Kristín at home with the revision books from which she could only ever be reluctantly parted. He had walked down to the city centre, where he bought two books at a shop that stayed open well into the evening before strolling down to the lake that was such a landmark in the centre of Reykjavík. That day the weather had been unseasonably still, spiced with a chill that seeped under the collar of his jacket. Although the sky was heavy with clouds, it was still somehow bright, with Christmas lights illuminating every corner of the city. He had stood by the lake with his back to the Parliament building and the City Hall to his right. There had been few people about and he looked out over the houses as if he were detached from himself, purely an observer taking in a handsome view, a film sequence rolling from left to right. It was nine in the evening and there was a vista of dignified houses, their windows decorated with advent candles, Christmas trees with shimmering lights and the cathedral bells ringing. It was as if the peace of the city had proved itself stronger than the Christmas rush. The ducks on the lake called, answering the bells. He had stood stock still, breathing in the spirit of the moment, with time passing more slowly than he could ever have imagined.
The bells continued to peal, but this time they were the bells of Siglufjördur. Ari Thór stopped in his tracks, enveloped by his memories. Ugla laid a hand on his shoulder; it was as light as a feather, but it still made him start. He immediately – wishfully – thought of Kristín, even though he knew that it wasn’t her.
He looked around and smiled.
There she stood, Ugla the piano teacher, in dark jeans and a bright white T-shirt, in her early twenties, tall and slim. There was a warm aura about her, despite the chill air, but also a hint of sadness in her eyes. The glow of the streetlights gleamed on her long, fair hair and she returned his smile.
‘Aren’t you coming in? You’ll freeze to death out here.’
Ari Thór had seen her advertisement in the Co-op window a couple of weeks ago. He had always wanted to play the piano, but never had the time or inclination to do anything about it. He had pulled off one of the strips with her name and phone number, and now he was here for his second lesson.
He was dressed for the cold and could see the goose pimples on Ugla’s arms as she stood in her short-sleeved top on the steps.
A contraction of the muscles under the skin, he recalled Kristín telling him, providing a medical explanation for the phenomenon, when he had come out with the old cliché that he got goose pimples every time he saw her.
‘Thanks,’ he said, hanging his coat on a hook in the lobby and closing the door behind him. ‘Of course I haven’t been able to practise since the last lesson, as I don’t have anything to practise on. I’m probably your worst-ever student.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You’re the best and the worst. Let’s just say right away you’re the best as you’re my only student. I’m still wondering why I bothered to place the ad to begin with, but I suppose old Hrólfur sparked my interest.’
‘Hrólfur? The writer?’ Ari Thór asked. He had heard of the old master who lived in the town.
‘That’s him. He’s a wonderful old character. You ought to meet him; get him to sign a book for you. You never know – might be your last chance! Not that he isn’t sprightly for his age, and he’s as sharp as a knife.’
‘I’d like a chance to meet him, although I’ve never read any of his books.’
‘You have to read North of the Hills. It’s a real masterpiece. It’s his only novel and it’s brilliant. After that he wrote short stories and poetry.’
‘I didn’t know that…’
‘I’ll lend you the book,’ Ugla said, interrupting him. ‘He signed it for me, so you had better not spill anything on it.’ She gave him a warm smile. ‘What would you like to drink? Coffee?’
‘Do you have tea?’
Ari Thór had drunk so much coffee during his university years that even the smell brought back uncomfortable memories of late-night sessions, edgy with caffeine and stress. He was trying to wean himself onto tea instead.
‘Sure. Take a seat and I’ll bring you some.’
He sank into a deep, red armchair, letting his hands lie on the armrests and taking in the living room. During their first lesson, Ugla told him that she had rented the flat furnished, which included the old piano. Certainly nobody would have imagined that a young woman would have decorated a living room like this. It was like a step back in time, with a beautiful wooden floor, mostly hidden by an oddly patterned brown-and-white carpet. There were two narrow bookcases, dark brown and workmanlike. The landlord had clearly taken the books away – there were just a few paperbacks on the shelves, a mixture of whodunits and romantic novels, and one beautifully bound copy of North of the Hills by Hrólfur Kristjánsson. On the long wall behind the sofa hung a print of a well-known painting and opposite it stood the piano, buried under a stack of music.
Ugla appeared from the kitchen with a steaming mug.
‘I hope I’m not breaking any laws by teaching piano lessons without a permit,’ she said, handing him the mug and two tea bags. ‘I only have two kinds of tea,’ she apologised.
‘Thanks. If it happens to be illegal, then I’ll turn a blind eye.’ Ari Thór smiled and dipped a teabag in the hot water. ‘The police have better things to do than chase unlicensed teachers,’ he said, and wondered if that was really the case. Those first few days in Siglufjördur had been an interesting experience, with regular patrols undertaken in the big jeep but not a lot to d
o. Hardly anyone ever broke a speed limit, at least not inside the town and certainly not on the snow-covered mountain roads with that sheer drop on the far side of the tunnel. It was more to do with the danger than the possibility of a fine. He had attended one road accident, a minor rear-end shunt, and had twice been asked to unlock cars. A few times he had ferried drunks home; it was clear that the police provided a range of services here.
‘I’m going to get myself a coffee,’ Ugla said. ‘Then we can start the lesson.’
Each lesson was supposed to be forty-five minutes, but the previous week Ari Thór had spent an hour after the lesson chatting to Ugla.
Over the last few weeks he had felt every inch the newcomer to a strange place. Nobody approached him and yet everyone knew who he was – knew who everyone was in this cloistered town. Nobody spoke to him at the gym or the pool, although he often caught the locals giving him appraising glances, checking out this new addition to the town’s police force.
On one occasion he had been about to issue a fine for using a mobile phone behind the wheel to a local.
‘Who the hell are you? You’re a police officer? I didn’t know we had a new cop here,’ said the driver scathingly.
Ari Thór knew perfectly well that the man knew better.
‘How do I know you haven’t just stolen a car and a uniform?’ the driver had pressed on, his half-smile arrogant.
Ari Thór had smiled back.
‘I’m not going to issue a fine this time around.’ He was courteous, in spite of his frustration. ‘Just don’t do it again.’ Next time he wouldn’t be so understanding.
He knew that people were keeping an eye on him. He had once forgotten to indicate at a corner while on patrol in the car and when he next ran into Tómas, he was told that an unidentified passer-by had complained.
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